


Frozen Stags

by Nitrobot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angry Illya, Choking, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love/Hate, M/M, Mostly Hate, Pillow Talk, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6298195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitrobot/pseuds/Nitrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether it's been months or years since the visits first started, Illya can't say. What he can say is that ever since they did, his temper hasn't improved. </p><p>Not that Loki really cares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen Stags

**Author's Note:**

> I am in crack pairing hell and I can't get out. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Please give me more Loki/Illya ideas cause I have so little but I want so many gah~~

Denial and regret gripped Illya harder than the early chill leaking through the room window and the flimsy curtains drawn safely over them. He was used to blankets being too small to completely cover him, especially used to the skim of icy air over his skin, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the shivers. 

For some reason, Loki didn't seem to mind the cold. The moonlight outside bathed him like the sun, not a single bump or tremble on his blue-tinged body; not even when Illya’s fingers brushed down it with nothing else to do with themselves, or perhaps to just prove to himself that he wasn't dreaming.

“You know, you were much more aggressive the first time… I quite enjoyed it.” If it wasn't for that mumble and his half-moon eyes with their heavy lids lazily fluttering, Loki might have easily feigned sleep. Illya knew he wasn’t referring to his caresses before he stopped them, hovering over the exposed curve of Loki’s hip for just a second until he forced his hand away. 

“Don't tempt me.” His growl bit into the frost coating the air, and only succeeded in making Loki laugh. Even his hair, ink strands spilled over the pillow and Illya's chest, seemed to twitch up to mock the Russian.

“Isn't that exactly what I've been doing with you this whole time?” He angled his head upwards, eyes casting eclipses over Illya's face as they searched the Russian’s permafrost frown. 

“Among other things, I'm certain...” Whether or not any part of him wanted to believe in the fairytale of a wayward God’s harmless interest in mortals; whether magic had a place outside the hearts of children and proved its existence in the icy spark that left his lips tingling hours after being kissed; whether he just wanted something else to carry the blame for his weak wills; Illya fiercely held onto the suspicion the only reason Loki bothered with him was because he had something he wanted. Whatever it was, Illya could not even wager a guess at, could not possibly otherwise explain why a supposed deity would waste so many nights with one mortal among millions on Earth.

And after so many times spent in his afterglow, he could no longer convince himself Loki was simply lying about his origins. Normal men did not moan like a choir of harpstrings, did not sweat icicles when pinned down, did not bare their teeth in a challenge like a hunting fox when utterly dominated in every other way.  
In treacherous times like these especially, they did not keep laughing when accused of subterfuge.

“You still think I'm tricking you into these situations…” Even hushed, Loki’s tone made Illya feel like a child sat before a New Year’s Day fire being told that Ded Moroz lives in the gulag.

“You are supposedly a trickster god. That is what you are good at, isn't it?”

A heavy weight evaporated from his ribcage, though his heart still thrummed beneath Loki’s smooth chin. Even framed by a mess of raven feathers, his face still carried a perfection that should have been punched out a long time ago. “Why, Illya, have you been reading about me?”

In fact, Illya had looked up ‘Loki’ the same morning he first woke up next to him. All it lead him to were millennia aged myths with roots set deep in a land only a puddle of ocean away from Russia. In between their irregular trysts, whenever the KGB wasn't flinging him off to the four corners of the world, he'd been guilty of often thumbing through wherever Loki happened to be scrawled down; devious tales carried forth from the past in skulls that cracked open before Illya was even born, now preserved only by their leather skins and hardback spines. 

In truth, outside of the fragile bonds of etiquette, a library was the only place that would force Illya to be calm. Even as he tried to fit the monster of the worn legends to the creature he might have made love to just the previous night, he could not let frustration bleed through until he returned home- and by then, Loki was often already waiting for him. One particular evening had Illya learn of a story where he helped kill a god of love, justice, forgiveness; by the time he stopped rutting into him daylight was shining on Loki’s exhausted smirks. Even if there was more than one Loki in the universe, Illya was just glad for an excuse to hurt the one that kept bothering him. 

Whatever showed on Illya's face as he remembered that night either wasted or well-spent, it made Loki’s face darken to match the room. “I asked you a question.” Illya could feel Loki’s throat rolling in thunder against his chest, and all that showed of his smirk was Fenris’ own fangs peeking out at him. Times like this, when he couldn't rely on anger or its more dangerous sister lust to drown the rest of the world out, looking at Loki reminded Illya of an old childhood fear; Morozko, the snow spirit who rewarded those with courtesy and left the rude to freeze to death. Sometimes it reminded him when to watch his tongue. Sometimes.

“It does not matter,” Illya said, staring down Loki’s hooded glare.

“I’d like to be the judge of that.”

Illya blinked, but his eyes were still locked. “Are you worried about what I might have stumbled across?”

And then Loki’s trained grin resurfaced, a barely tamed wildness ambushing Illya as he pulled himself up from the deceiving height of the Russian’s chest. “Whatever it was, it obviously hasn't put you off…”  
There was only a second of resistance against Loki’s lips before Illya succumbed to them like he always did, mouths moulding firmly into each other and holding in undercurrents of moans always threatening to swell into tides. Black strands tickled and streamed between his fingers, breaths turned icy, and sharp teeth pulled at Illya's top lip as Loki swept his mouth away, holding Illya's open with his tongue still lightly panting for the gentle slip of another against it.  
Now there was nothing to muffle Illya’s whisper, “Боже, я ненавижу тебя.”

Illya had never used his native language around Loki before, so he got an answer where he was expecting none. “There's only two other gods I know of, and I'm not overly fond of either of them.” 

“Is that why you prefer mortals?” Illya asked.

With Loki’s face still hovering so close to his, he saw the expression harden before feeling his body tense. “I don't. You are… just an exception, in many different ways.” When a smile made itself known, it was like staring into a starving maw. “It's very rare that a man, never mind a Midgardian, manages to enchant me like a Goddess should.”

Illya only huffed with a flare of his nostrils. “I don't usually like men either.”

“Are we both just lying to ourselves then?” Loki asked quietly, finally letting his head lower to the cold surface of a vacant pillow.

“That is another thing you are good at. Lies,” Illya noted.

“Why do you let me get away with them, then?” Loki inched closer again, magnetised to the inferno building under Illya's skin, seeing no need to do anything but whisper so close to his ear. “Do you fuck just to pretend you have any power over me?”

A rustle and blur of bedcovers ended with Loki’s back pinned to the mattress and his hair spread in a black bloodstain around his head as he laughed at the hands fastened around his neck; tiny shovels of air against the deep bellows of Illya's lungs as the Russian heaved his anger out by the breath. The only other alternative was acknowledging the heat melting between his legs through his resistance, and fucking his way through yet another night. Which was exactly what Loki might have been wanting all along, from how Illya couldn't even choke his smirk out of him.   
“Hide behind that handsome scowl of yours all you want, Illya, but I don't need Heimdall’s eyes to see what's lurking beneath it.”

Illya's fingers twitched, just a wrong inch away from crushing pipe walls. As if Gods needed to breathe. “What is?” he demanded through the walls of his gritted teeth.

“Too contemptuous to be love, too shy to be hate…” Loki took a few seconds to feign contemplation, though he’d had the answer ready for much longer than the few hours they had together. “It must be fear. You're scared, Illya.”

And Illya had to fight the urge not to spit, keeping his jaw clenched as he growled a scoff instead. “What would I be _scared_ of?”

He swore Loki’s eyes glittered up at him, the stars themselves mocking him. “The fact that you know you can't just kill me when I push you too far.”

If there was ever a moment where Illya was absolutely certain he was in the presence of something alien, it was right there in the drumming pulse of what he assumed was Loki’s heart and the certainty clamped like iron shackles over his voice. Though the signs were all there from the start; the scraps of leather armour that were alien in themselves and their far too many buckles only infuriating Illya with his clumsy impatient fingers; the indecipherable words Loki would mutter under a breath against his lips or while biting into his skin; the celestial marble that his body must have beeb carved out of; just to name but a few among thousands of clues. 

And how do you kill a God? A prince of a world you'd never lay eyes on?

One by one, like moths falling dead, Illya's fingers retreated from Loki’s neck, and his hands remained pried open like a broken bear trap. Meeting Loki’s lazy gaze was like staring into a furnace of stars, or the fires of wherever he truly came from. “I don't believe in gods,” Illya said, unable to truly tell how much he was lying. “But you make a very strong case for the existence of demons.” 

Loki found the horrifying thought amusing. “Which am I, then?” he laughed.

“It doesn't matter… either way, you are not a man.” Rolling himself off of Loki to the safety of his side of the bed, stubbornly ignoring all lingering traces of an arousal stemming from parts of his mind better off locked away, Illya tried so hard to forget that he was even there. 

“But you knew that from the very beginning,” Loki said, and now Illya was turning to face him again before any kind of common sense could stop him. 

“How do you know that?”

Loki smiled, no teeth for once, and answered in a breath against the hollow of Illya's neck.  
“Because mortal or not, I don't fall in love with stupid people.”

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm a bit of a pathetic nerd for Russian culture:  
> Ded Moroz- ‘Old man frost’, basically Russian Santa Claus  
> “Боже, я ненавижу тебя”- “God, I hate you” (or so Google translate says *sweats*)


End file.
